


reprieve

by epsiloneridani



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 07:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epsiloneridani/pseuds/epsiloneridani
Summary: Fred/Veta drabble. Fred needs help. Veta’s there.





	reprieve

“Breathe.”

He rests his head against her shoulder and she presses a hand to the back of his neck. “Breathe,” she says quietly, but with the same command and control she uses when Ash or Mark or ‘Livie wake gasping and heaving. “You have to breathe.”

He tries; his breath shudders, catches. She holds a little tighter. “Breathe,” Veta says again, and the hint of sharpness slips away. Her free hand cards through his hair, careful, careful, close.

Longer than regulation length. Odd for Fred.

His shoulders tighten suddenly, tormented, and she knows he’s fighting down a sob, swallowing it back because  _Spartans never die_  goes hand-in-hand with  _Spartans do not cry._  She lets him have his illusions, waits a moment and a million years for him to fall silent and still.

“You wanna tell me what this is about?” Veta asks at long last. A glance at the clock says it’s almost 0200; he’s been curled up on her couch for well over a half an hour. Before that he hovered at her door – knocking, once, and shifting when she answered like he couldn’t tell if he’d just made a horrible mistake.

Fred clears his throat and shoves gently away, folding his arms across his chest and driving his teeth into his lip. Veta raises a skeptical eyebrow at him and he  stops.

“I…”

“Yes,” Veta says dryly. “You.”

It gets her a ghost of a smile. Fred scrubs at his face for a second. “It’s a long story,” he says, and though his voice is rough it still carries some of his old composure. “I’m sorry to bother you, Inspector. It was inconsiderate of me.”

“Inconsiderate or not,” Veta says, “you’re here now.”

He snorts softly.

Might be a good move. Might be a minefield. “Bad dreams?”

Fred huffs a breath. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

Blue Team shares their quarters. She wonders briefly if they’re all too exhausted to have heard him get up or, more likely, if someone followed him only so far and decided to give him his space.

“I told Kelly I was going for a walk,” Fred says, like he read her mind. “I didn’t intend to wake you.”

“Why did you?”

Fred blinks.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Veta says slowly, “but don’t you usually talk to your team?”

“They don’t know what to do either.”

He says it so softly she almost doesn’t hear it. Veta frowns. Fred shrugs helplessly and plants his hands on the couch like he’s going to get up to leave.

She clasps his wrist suddenly, without thinking, and he stops. “Fred,” she says, calmer than she feels, “what is it?”

He eases back in a way that does nothing for the taut set of his spine. There’s something like a hurricane in his eyes, fear and fight ripping and raging – torn. “It's  _John,”_ Fred says through gritted teeth. “He’s been going like hell and he won’t slow down.”

Longer hair. Dark circles. No break. Makes sense. Veta tilts her head at him.

The few words cascade into a waterfall. “Since he got back,” Fred says, a hissed whisper, “we take  _every damned mission._  Sometimes he argues for them. And it’s like he doesn't  _see_ –”

She waits a beat. “How tired you all are.”

“What it’s doing to him,” Fred says, a worn echo. His shoulders drop. “To all of us.”

Her hand finds its way into his and he clasps it carefully. “I’m sorry, Veta,” he says without meeting her eyes. His voice is hoarse. “You have your own concerns. It’s irresponsible of me to–”

“We all need help sometimes,” she interrupts and Fred lifts his head just enough to quirk a brow at her. It’s not one of her sayings – it came from the Gammas – and it shows.

“It’s true,” she defends haltingly.

Fred glances away again. His thumb brushes idly at her wrist, mindless movement or cautious comfort. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“I haven’t–”

Fred looks at her, and for an instant there’s raw grief and aching indecision and crushing responsibility written in every line. “Thank you,” he repeats.

He hasn’t let go of her hand. She squeezes, once – and holds.

“Any time.”

—-


End file.
